I told him that I hadn’t, but that I had thought about it. The tide of my memory lapped at the detail of water at mooring. He had asked me to describe it as we pulled into port. I found my mind grasping, near empty, like lungs held without purpose of air. I was nearly absent under the Tacoma skyline, my lips parted to the taste of the city as I remembered surrendering to it. I was in love, had fallen, when I first drove to find my new studio within the sprawl of architecture months before. The urban aroma, once a stench, had opened to the flower of new possibility, and the lights did dance. They were the red and green of Christmas until the memory of Bo surfaced like a seal head, with all that I was trying to hold under surface suddenly looking back at me, hungry, and untied by trying. He was the question mark of gifts to come through romance, the celebration of new spirit, rekindled after a long and desolate divorce. I remember that my heart lit to get his messages, the first so close to Christmas, and then on the day, even a “Hi” was magic. He drew his smileys with noses : – ) The coolest motherf*cker on the planet. I couldn’t wait to meet him, because I knew what I felt before knowing his face. I was excited about him and everything; inspired.

I blinked, and the season had past, leaving the city to concrete and the boat to float new memories. I was nearly bitter that it had ended, until I saw July on the horizon of the sea. Santa wasn’t real, but independence surely was. I was the freedom of open waters sitting on the vessel, my mind the color of quiet. Inside, I was the detail of a hole. “They look like fireworks,” I said at last.

“Fireworks?” his question was to my obvious. The water was a reflection of show.

“Yes, fireworks, like sparklers lit all at once,” I let the description drift lazy in mediocrity, while remembering ignition inside myself by comparison. There he was again, his memory a seal stealing salmon from my date. Knowing Bo was like bursting, until I did through implosion. Falling in love with him was like swallowing light, only to have it reabsorbed by darkness. I felt put out sitting in the company of another man, but then it would always be that way, until it wasn’t, until I let him go, and damn it if I wasn’t trying. I felt like a fool sitting in the memory of nothing; I had nothing, because there wasn’t. There was never an us. I had imagined the whole thing, much like the fireworks masquerading on the water.

I studied the doctor in the twilight, wondering if I could feel for him, if I dare imagine trying again, after swallowing my own heart. He was quite handsome, tall in skin the bronze of statuesque. His eyes were pools of clear emerald, flecked with an invitation to gaze and his smile… His smile was the carved ivory of tusks, near synthetic in appearance, while bolstering all that is genuine and also rare. I couldn’t have written him better, Cheshire to my cat, or to the Mona Lisa by ponder. The question sat pregnant to void, consistent with every suitor since parting. Even if they were better, they were still not him. They were still not Bo. The doctor was an exception, further still, in that he was everything I had asked for. In fact, he was exactly what I had written as wanting in my dating profile, down to the mission of his travels. He visits orphans in third world countries, helping them thrive by the simplest gift, the joy of a smile, and arms open to hold in friendship.

“Maybe…” was my silent answer. Bo had taken the “Yes”.

“Did you write about our day?” he asked.

I told him that I hadn’t, but that I had thought about it. The tide of my memory lapped at the detail of water at mooring. He had asked me to describe it as we pulled into port. I found my mind grasping, near empty, like lungs held without purpose of air. I was nearly absent under the Tacoma skyline, my lips parted to the taste of the city as I remembered surrendering to it. I was in love, had fallen, when I first drove to find my new studio within the sprawl of architecture months before. The urban aroma, once a stench, had opened to the flower of new possibility, and the lights did dance. They were the red and green of Christmas until the memory of Bo surfaced like a seal head, with all that I was trying to hold under surface suddenly looking back at me, hungry, and untied by trying. He was the question mark of gifts to come through romance, the celebration of new spirit, rekindled after a long and desolate divorce. I remember that my heart lit to get his messages, the first so close to Christmas, and then on the day, even a “Hi” was magic. He drew his smileys with noses : – ) The coolest motherf*cker on the planet. I couldn’t wait to meet him, because I knew what I felt before knowing his face. I was excited about him and everything; inspired.

I blinked, and the season had past, leaving the city to concrete and the boat to float new memories. I was nearly bitter that it had ended, until I saw July on the horizon of the sea. Santa wasn’t real, but independence surely was. I was the freedom of open waters sitting on the vessel, my mind the color of quiet. Inside, I was the detail of a hole. “They look like fireworks,” I said at last.

“Fireworks?” his question was to my obvious. The water was a reflection of show.

“Yes, fireworks, like sparklers lit all at once,” I let the description drift lazy in mediocrity, while remembering ignition inside myself by comparison. There he was again, his memory a seal stealing salmon from my date. Knowing Bo was like bursting, until I did through implosion. Falling in love with him was like swallowing light, only to have it reabsorbed by darkness. I felt put out sitting in the company of another man, but then it would always be that way, until it wasn’t, until I let him go, and damn it if I wasn’t trying. I felt like a fool sitting in the memory of nothing; I had nothing, because there wasn’t. There was never an us. I had imagined the whole thing, much like the fireworks masquerading on the water.

I studied the doctor in the twilight, wondering if I could feel for him, if I dare imagine trying again, after swallowing my own heart. He was quite handsome, tall in skin the bronze of statuesque. His eyes were pools of clear emerald, flecked with an invitation to gaze and his smile… His smile was the carved ivory of tusks, near synthetic in appearance, while bolstering all that is genuine and also rare. I couldn’t have written him better, Cheshire to my cat, or to the Mona Lisa by ponder. The question sat pregnant to void, consistent with every suitor since parting. Even if they were better, they were still not him. They were still not Bo. The doctor was an exception, further still, in that he was everything I had asked for. In fact, he was exactly what I had written as wanting in my dating profile, down to the mission of his travels. He visits orphans in third world countries, helping them thrive by the simplest gift, the joy of a smile, and arms open to hold in friendship.